


.0005” Gold Plate

by Adelth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, Eventual Romance, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Outsider, Spy Katsuki Yuuri, Spy Victor Nikiforov, Violence, about on par with a modern Bond flick in terms of violence/sensitive content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-08-17 10:16:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16514447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adelth/pseuds/Adelth
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov is an infamous FSB agent, a dedicated and proficient operative since his days as a teenage cadet. No one knows what to make of it when he walks into an American embassy and offers to turn in his signature gold-finish makarovs in exchange for asylum. Obviously he can't be trusted, but he also can't be turned away, even if he has some strange requirements.This is how Yuuri Katsuki, disgraced field agent, ends up fake-married and living in suburbia with a former(?) Russian spy who won't stop telling their neighbors he's Yuuri's mail order husband.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for the art in this chapter goes to my bang!partner, the fabulous and multi-talented [shadhahvar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadhahvar).

**21.**

Charleen Lewis has a very nice house, it’s lofty ceilings and brick-face projecting affluence without outright ostentation. She lives in the very definition of a good neighborhood, the homes neat and homogeneous, the lawns generously sized and often home to mid-sized oaks or maples. This entire subdivision is new, squeezed between golf courses and still under construction, which means the trees are an affectation, placed for effect. They’re not saplings either, so it must have been an expensive effort, but Charlie considers it well worth the cost. It reminds her of the suburban neighborhood she’d grown up in, only better, a testimony that she’s improved her station without losing her roots. She likes her new neighbors especially, and she hasn’t even met them yet, though she plans on correcting that soon.

She doesn’t want to impose on the new owners of 51 Pheasant Lane, but they’re the most interesting thing that’s happened here in years, and she’s dying to meet them. Their property is back-to-back with the Lewis home, making the approach slightly awkward, but Charlie is going head over with a casserole soon if the people closest are too shy to do it. Bless old Martha, widowed as long as Charlie’s known her; she calls nearly every day to say how handsome young Mr. Katsuki is in his suit and hat as he leaves for work, a real dedicated family man in the making.

“And his husband,” Martha will say consideringly, testing the feel of the words, deciding if she’s allowed to say them, “he seems quite lovely as well.”

Charlie is so glad she’d talked Richard out of moving into a gated community. They’re perfectly safe here, and the people are so much more interesting. It's still not easy to buy into this neighborhood, it’s impressive that their new neighbors have managed to do so at such a young age. Poor Nessy Wroblewski, who reminds Charlie of every fussy aunt she’s ever had despite being an alarming two years younger than Charlie herself, had been so excited to introduce her various nieces to the serious and successful young man. Martha had hemmed and hawed as she shared her observations about the people moving into 51 Pheasant, and it had taken Charlie to say outright that Mr. Katsuki was, in fact, already taken.

Nessy mourned the lost opportunity and fixed them another round of Long Island iced teas to soothe the sting.

Charlie isn't proud of herself for peering into the Katsuki's yard through her back window, it makes her feel like a little girl sticking her nose where it doesn't belong. But she just can't resist the urge to unravel the mystery. She's enjoying this, really, she's sure that soon enough the new neighbors will be old news and she'll go back to being lunched by the neighborhood ladies and listening to her husband complain about the state of the nation.

Speaking of her husband, Richard wanders into the living room to stand at her shoulder. Charlie would feel abashed at being caught out, but her proclivity for people-watching is hardly news.

“Anything exciting today?” he asks, peering out the window beside her. He doesn’t care, but he’s always been indulgent of her interests. He doesn’t fuss if she spends Wednesday nights at book club instead of having dinner with him, or even if she disappears for a long weekend to a photographer’s retreat. There is a reason she married this man, after all. They’re good partners, supportive of one another, but they don’t live in one another’s pockets.

“No, damn that old biddy across the road. She’s still the only one who’s seen The Husband.

Richard huffs a laugh into her hair, smiling. “You love Martha darling, she’s the only one who doesn’t read the cliff notes for book club.”

“Only because she doesn’t understand the ‘computer box.’ You know that great-niece of her’s—the pretty redhead—set her up with some sort of high-tech entertainment system? It was very thoughtful. Martha’s afraid to turn it on, I swear that remote is gathering dust.”

“You should ask Martha for her number, maybe she’ll know what to do about our router dropping the signal.”

“Does it make you wish we’d had children? I never included having someone to troubleshoot our future devices in the cost-benefit analysis. I’ve been so smug about my decisions all these years, and now I’m contemplated stealing someone else’s grandchild.”

“We’re not quite old enough for grandchildren I’d hope, unless our theoretical offspring made some disappointing life choices. This one’s already proven her usefulness anyway. I’ll fire up the barbecue and you can bake that cobbler when she comes over, I’m sure we can convince her to defect.”

Charlie is about the comment on the way people will talk, their stolen child being far too pretty to be Richard’s legitimate offspring, when the french doors of the house she’s been watching open into the back yard.

The Husband—unmistakably this must be The Husband—sweeps out of the kitchen and onto the deck in a swirl of white silk. He’s pale and very blond in the summer sun, and Charlie has never quite felt the need to attach the idiom “legs for days” to a man before. She doesn’t have time to process, it happens so quickly, but then he’s dropping the robe in a long sensuous glide, sending her jaw with it.

Well. That’s a very small bathing suit on a very attractive man. He stretches an arm languorously behind his head, face tilted up like some kind of sunbather he clearly isn’t, not with that skin. The shift of muscle in his torso is impressive, but the man dives headlong into the water before Charlie can look her fill, flashing half exposed ass cheeks for a moment as he goes.

Charlie blinks and realizes she’s gripping Richard’s arm tightly. They look at each other, then back at the figure swimming laps across the length of the pool.

“I suppose that’s the style in Europe,” Richard offers gruffly.

“Oh dear,” says Charlie, recovering from the shock. “I need to call Martha.”

 

 

 

**10.**

The Dominican Republic is a good posting, all in all, for an aging diplomat like Gerry. The lax passport requirement brings just enough trouble his way to keep things interesting, but he’s a long way from the heart of the conflict. Mostly he helps tourists in some form of distress or another.

He doesn’t deal with many walk-ins, and certainly isn’t prepared for the Russian spy sitting across from him, claiming he wants to defect. He’s wearing mirrored aviators and his nose is pinking a bit from the sun. His mouth twists into a moue of dissatisfaction.

“ _Spy_ is so dramatic don’t you think? I’m an FSB case officer, my operations were inward facing, counterintelligence at most.”

 _Jesus Christ_ . “You expect me to believe that you’re _Victor Nikiforov_ and you’re here to betray your country.”

“Not particularly, but I expect you to call the appropriate authorities and hand off this mess. Don’t worry, it will look excellent on your next review.” The man who probably isn’t Victor Nikiforov removes his sunglasses with one hand and folds them into the front of his shirt. His eyes are an eerily vibrant blue, not far off from the color of the tropical sea, and he surveys the office and its occupants with misleadingly lazy interest.“Have your man open the briefcase, if you like. I brought a gesture of my goodwill.”

Gerry probably shouldn’t, but they’re fairly sure the briefcase isn’t rigged with anything malicious. He jerks his head at a security officer, and the man fetches the briefcase, laying it carefully on the desk. Gerry spins it so the clasps face his unwelcome visitor. “I’d rather you opened it, just in case.”

The man’s lips tilt upwards the slightest bit, amused, but he reaches for the locking mechanisms without complaint. Gerry is expecting the files, reams of paperwork in Cyrillic. He’s not expecting the sealed bag containing two pistols, magazines detached and empty. The Makarov is one of the most distinctive handguns on the planet, the short-barrelled profile made famous by its ubiquitousness among Soviet armed services. These particular examples shine golden even under unflattering fluorescent lights.

“What the fuck,” says Gerry, “did you take these off a Bond villain or something. Do they even work?”

“Titanium nitride?” asks the security officer, peering over Gerry’s shoulder while he continues his rant.

“—and how the everloving fuck did you get these through the airport, let alone into the embassy?”

The supposed defector answers mildly, “I think in this situation _I am_ the Bond villain, which means I have my ways. Although given my nascent redemption arc I may actually be a Bond girl instead, my grasp of American cinema conventions is limited.” He tilts his head towards the security officer and continues, “and no, just because it exists doesn’t make titanium nitride a good idea. Electroless is safer, and given the thinness of the plating the cost in gold isn’t as excessive as it seems.”

The security officer nods consideringly, as if this is a reasonable conversation. The man calling himself Victor Nikiforov leans forward, making every guard in the room tense at once. Gerry knew he should have cuffed him to his chair, guidelines be damned. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve come seeking life, liberty, and shelter under the PL-110 program. Call the CIA.”   

**2.**

“Katsuki, thank you for coming.”

It’s not as if Yuuri had a choice, but he answers politely, trying not to let it show how freaked out he is to be called into this office. Facing his boss would be bad enough, but the other man in attendance is even more foreboding, if only because Yuuri has no idea who he is. “Of course sir. Is this about my last report? I know it’s a retread of the same issues as the previous analysis, but honestly the situation hasn’t changed below the surface.” _Despite political optimism,_ he thinks but doesn’t say. That isn’t his job.

“Your last report was fine Katsuki, clear and well reasoned. The Agency appreciates the good work you’ve done over the last several years, and my colleague is here today to offer you a unique opportunity.” With that thoroughly insufficient introduction Yuuri’s boss stands up, nods to the unknown man, and _vacates her own office_.

The other man doesn’t take the seat, but stays looming in the corner, like exactly the kind of spook civilians imagine when they think of CIA agents. His posture is ramrod straight, and after letting the silence linger well into uncomfortable, he cuts straight to the point.

“Have you ever considered transferring to the Directorate of Operations?”

Yuuri chokes on his tongue, expelling an ugly huffing sound while demonstrating exactly why he belongs far away from HUMINT collection. “No!” he says, overly loud and shocked. “I mean—no sir. I’m not ex-military, my degree is in communications. I’m just...an analyst.”

“Not all of Operations is paramilitary, but I take your meaning. The fact is I could use you on a job Katsuki. I want a report officer to join a team in place, and with your tenure in the Office of Russian and European Analysis you have the background I’m looking for. I’m sure you’ve heard how limited field reports written by station chiefs and their deputies can be. These men get promoted for their success at tradecraft, and then we expect them to do an analyst’s job on top of their supervisory duties.”

“With all due respect sir, it has to be easier to teach a field agent to write a legible report than to— “ Yuuri stops, vaunted ability to communicate stymied as he waves a hand indicating his general being. “—than to make _me_ qualified for Operations.”

“If all I wanted was a glorified secretary that would be true, but great report officers do more than amalgamate and convey information; they analyze. I want someone who can look at the information a CI is bringing in and offer useful opinions on the potential depth of information available, and the pitfalls of its reliability. I want someone in the field who can reliably spot holes in a network and determine the shape of what’s missing.”

The man sighs, and his posture relaxes a fraction. “Some of the men who end up as chiefs have that ability, but some just don’t, they’re valuable for other reasons. You’re young, unattached, athletic and a good analyst. You’ll need tradecraft, survival, and combat training, and you can expect that to take at least a year. More if we decide you should pick up another language while you’re at it.”

Yuuri rolls the idea of _combat training_ around in his head as if it might bite him. Compartmentalization rules the agency, but it’s not like he doesn’t have some idea what that means. The weaponry and demolitions training that goes down at a certain unnamed naval base is almost an office in-joke. He tries to imagine himself handling a brick of plastic explosive or an assault rifle and fails.

“Look Katsuki, the choice is entirely yours, and the job may well be dangerous at times. For what it’s worth you’ll get to travel the world, confront interesting challenges, and make a real contribution towards the security of the country and the world. It’s not an offer that comes up every day, and I wouldn’t be making it to you if I didn’t think you had potential. You can take your time deciding.”

**13.**

Yuuri finds being enclosed in his office cubicle deeply unsettling, which is ridiculous. He’s been a desk spook much longer than he ever was a field agent—a field trainee really. Considering how badly that had gone, this is clearly where he belongs. In this office with all the people who’ve never practiced nighttime amphibious extractions or the best way to demolish a structure, and who eye him warily out of the corners of their eyes because he has.

He hasn’t _earned_ the way some of his new coworkers—new because he sure as hell isn’t with OREA anymore—look at him. He’s not some Operations veteran returning home with a collection of scars and paranoid tics. He’d made it through survival training by learning from the guys who _weren’t_ hapless civilians, pissed off the station chief he’d been assigned to by _being_ a hapless civilian, then promptly proved everyone was right to doubt him in spectacular manner.

Maybe they eye him warily because they’ve caught wind of the fallout from his last mission, his abject failure in the field and the long, long “debrief” that followed. That would explain the more hostile looks at least. Maybe they wonder why he still has a job at all, let alone any sort of security clearance.

Yuuri wonders too, but at this point he thinks it’s a “keep your enemies closer” thing. They’re watching to see if he does anything suspicious now that he’s stateside, if anyone tries to contact him or if he shows signs of recovering the missing money. Either they think he’s compromised or they think he’s dumb enough to risk elaborately defrauding the government over thirty grande, a very poor risk assessment in his professional opinion.

And then there are the people who think he’s a hapless victim in all this, which is almost worse despite probably being the most accurate version of the reputation that follows Yuuri around these days.

“Yuuri!” Phichit ducks his head into the cubicle. “Whatcha’ doing today?”

Yuuri is doing the same thing he does every day, which is mostly turning down FOIA requests for Bin Laden’s porn. Phichit shouldn’t know this—being a contractor plucked out of Thailand for his wunderkind level ability as a polygraph operator—but probably does because everyone loves him. They’d gone through a section of tradecraft training together, and Phichit had all but adopted him when he returned in disgrace.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re not going to tell me. Fine, the office is buzzing today anyway. Sounds like something big is going down.”

“Won’t be my problem Phichit. I’m a pariah remember?”

“I still say you should lean into it, most people are just intimidated by your mysterious reputation. You could probably scare the newbies into doing your bidding.”

“Phichit, that-”

“Gotta fly Secret Agent Man, boss-looking people incoming.”

Given their shared history, Phichit hadn’t been assigned to Yuuri’s very long debriefing, for which Yuuri is grateful. He tends to leave Yuuri disoriented when he’s trying to be friendly, let alone if he were deliberately trying to pry Yuuri open. Lost in his consideration of what makes Phichit so good at his job, it catches Yuuri off guard when a trio of serious-faced people do in fact stop at his workstation.

“Yuuri Katsuki, you need to come with us.”

**14.**

Five people stare Yuuri down inside a conference room, and he determinedly does not fidget. All his training was good for this much at least. He can sit here and do nothing indefinitely.

“Do you have anything new to add to the account of your last mission with operations?” asks the second assistant director of the whole goddamn CIA. Yuuri wishes that he’d never accepted the offer to move to Operations, because if he hadn’t none of these people would even know his name.

“No, sir. I was in quarantine for six weeks, my debriefing was very thorough.” It would have been longer and rougher if some people had had their way, but this isn’t Dulles’s CIA anymore, and it’s not like Yuuri was holding anything back anyway.

“So you wouldn’t know why a Russian intelligence agent would come looking for you then.”

 _Fuck._ “No sir, I wouldn’t know. Something to do with Sochi I assume.”

“Well then, we’ll just have to figure it out together, won’t we? Clear out your desk, you’re being reassigned.”

**16.**

Zuhayra’s partner is being an ass, which is more or less business as usual. He at least refrains from being an ass about people who are some combination of brown, Muslim, and female in her presence, but she can tell it’s an effort. She supposes she should be grateful he’s trying at all. He’s a “product of his times” as they like to say, which means she’s going to enjoy outliving him and his ilk. In the meantime she’s going to learn what she can, because being an ass does not, regretfully, preclude being a good investigator.

“This is an operation on _domestic soil_ , how the fuck did the CIA scoop it? The Russian spook should be the FBI’s witness. And we can protect him without this “playing house” routine, it’s like my thirteen-year-old daughter planned this operation or some shit.”

“The Russian spook is Victor Nikiforov, and the fact that the name means nothing to you proves exactly why he’s in CIA custody. He’s also the one who wanted to “play house” as you put it.”

“And the Agency just rolled over for him? ‘Cause he’s such a badass we should be scared of his name, like some kind of Voldemort motherfucker?”

Zuhayra’s impassive cop face cracks, and she raises a hand up to muffle the snort. “Maybe more like Grindelwald,” she adds, charmed that even agent Manning references Harry Potter as a cultural touchstone, “since he wants to shack up with a guy from the other side and all.”

“It’s a risk to give him what he’s asking for, but we’re willing to take it. The operative he’s named has a spotted history in Russia, and everything about the situation is suspicious, including the fact that he’s not trying to make it look less suspicious. We’ll be able to keep an eye on their every move this way, nothing will be above scrutiny.”

“Shiiiit,” Manning drags the word out, and Zuhayra is starting to think he’s up to something. He is casually foulmouthed sometimes, but this isn’t a casual situation, and he’d warned her that overplaying the blasphemy would make people think you were stupid. He’s being deliberately recalcitrant, trying to ruffle the company man’s feathers, seeing what shakes loose. “If they start whispering sweet nothings while they bang, that ain’t my job to monitor.”

The CIA man looks almost amused by the possibility. “Personally I think Katsuki would keel over if you suggested he touch Nikiforov’s dick, but you can discuss it with the team you’ll be working with.

**4.**

It isn’t often that someone escapes the FSB’s surveillance, but this particular “diplomat” had done it, managing to wander the streets of Moscow unobserved for a time. Victor can appreciate the tradecraft, but that doesn’t mean he can let it go. He’s waiting with his apprentice a block from the American embassy, close enough that the agent must feel he’s made it home safely when Victor suddenly drags him into a dark alley.

The agent puts up a fight, but he’s ambushed and outnumbered, and Victor is not a novice. He pulls the man’s jacket halfway off, tangled around his face, and pins his arms above his head from behind. It’s not the best way to immobilize someone, but it leaves his torso an open, inviting target.

“Well?” he asks when his apprentice fails to take advantage of the opening. Fierce, pale eyes flick between Victor and his captive. “We don’t have long, show me you know how to throw a punch.”

The agent jerks in Victor’s hold, and he shakes him in reprimand. “Fool,” he tells him in English, “you aren’t going to die today. Why make it worse than it has to be?”

“You have no right—” The man’s muffled tirade is cut off by a fist to the mouth, and Victor growls in disapproval. The jacket helps, but there’s no reason to cut your hands up on someone’s face except youthful impulsiveness. The next blow is better, landing below the ribs and stealing the man’s breath. Victor has to hike him up to keep him on his feet, though it might be a feint.

The third impact makes the agent retch, and Victor revises his opinion. His apprentice is landing some truly punishing blows, slender arms concealing unexpected strength. They have time for half a dozen more before Victor drops the man and moves away quickly, young charge in tow.

**17.**

“My money’s on Katsuki being dirty. Nikiforov is here to learn what he knows and send it back to Russia somehow. Must be important for them to sacrifice such a notable player, we should all be worried.”

“Yeah, the thing with Katsuki is shady. But Nikiforov could just have pissed off the wrong people back home, not even he had enough influence to be bulletproof.”

“Okay, you’re both wrong but I’ll be happy to take your money.” The best way to know everyone’s secrets, Phichit finds, is to be their bookie. It’s a strategy that hasn’t failed him yet, from the streets of Bangkok to the offices of the CIA. “What about you, new girl. Want to lay a bet in the name of interagency cooperation?”

“Sure,” answers the new girl, “a hundred bucks says Nikiforov chased your man all the way here because the dick was just that good. Put it under agent Manning.”

“Ohh,” says Phichit gleefully, “that’s a good one. We’re going to get along just fine.”

“Thanks,” says agent Manning, “you can call me Zuhayra since we’re friends and all.”

**18.**

The first time Yuuri meets Victor Nikiforov they’re most of the way through getting fake-married in the eyes of the American government. Because Yuuri’s life has been a careening disaster ever since he answered that damn government job ad, this isn’t actually the worst possible way they could have met.

To wit: Yuuri had been stationed as an illegal agent in Russia, where it was Nikiforov’s job to root out and disappear people like him. Standing next to him in a very high security CIA office is downright benign by comparison. If he’s still a bit twitchy, well, he did spend six months hiding from this man. Others like him too, but also _specifically this man_. The Sochi station chief would shit a brick if he could see this.

His lips twitch involuntarily at the thought, and it’s a welcome relief until Victor Nikiforov catches the smile and chooses to grin like a loon back at him. It’s not refined or subtle or _sane_ at all, Nikiforov smiles like a goddamn madman, which in addition to being alarming doesn’t fit his reputation at all.

Yuuri tries not to look, but Victor keeps smiling all through the long briefing on protocol and the fact that he is absolutely not allowed to go anywhere unsupervised. They’ve heard it all before, but this particular official needs to make sure they’ve heard it together. Victor never tries to say anything to Yuuri, but he looks over his shoulder as he’s being led away, back to wherever they hold deeply suspicious Russian defectors who’ve been nothing but helpful. It’s hard to look away from his eyes, bright with interest and assessing, but thankfully he’s out the door and gone before Yuuri has time to process.

“Well Katsuki, last chance. If you know what he’s up to, we can stop this madness before it goes any further.”

“Sorry, sir. I really have no idea.”

“In that case, I wish you a short and revelatory marriage. Chin up, probably can’t be worse than my third wife.”

**3.**

Yuuri thinks they’re in the Philippines, which is worrying on several levels. He’d never had an interest in astrology before navigating unknown landscapes in pitch darkness became part of his life, but the stars say he’s not in the western hemisphere anymore at least.

His team had spent their first night of survival training hard marching through dense jungle without even the courtesy of a light source. They’d resorted to keeping a hand on the man in front of them just to stay together, and Collins had nearly taken a machete to the face when someone misjudged their backswing while trying to clear the path. He’d laughed it off, because normal concerns about personal safety are suspended while they’re out here, apparently.

Yuuri is fairly sure that the point of the night march was to prove that night marching through jungle is a terrible idea and should be avoided if at all possible. Or maybe they’re trying to weed out the weakest trainees before they start in on evasion exercises.

One of the men they’d traveled with, an actual ex-special forces soldier assigned to a different team, had sworn they’d be learning “shark defense” while out here. He’d said it with a grin, and Yuuri still wasn’t sure if he was teasing the dumb civilians or genuinely excited about fighting a shark.

Although it’s objectively terrible, Yuuri sort of settles into the hiking. He’s probably not maintaining an appropriate level of situational awareness, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to collapse when they’re finally allowed to stop either. He’s the first to start rooting around for materials to start building a shelter, though most of the others join in before long. Acosta has to stay sitting, but none of the younger men begrudge him that, he has a decade and twenty pounds of officer-worker pudge on any of them. He’s the best engineer on their team though, and he helps direct efforts to build a platform to keep them off the ground.

Everything is wet, but they’re not allowed a fire tonight anyway. They hang their damp socks and hope their boots will dry in the humid air. Yuuri flexes bare, much-abused toes and tries not to think about trench foot. He has fresh socks sealed away, and it’s not like the government really wants them to come to physical harm. There’s just...a margin for error out here in a way there isn’t with normal workplace safety. Probably you don’t catch a machete to the face, unless things go wrong in a particularly unfortunate way.

Acosta, apparently having elected himself team mom, forces water on all of them but they’re too tired to eat despite the doubtless sky high caloric expenditure of the last fifteen hours. Yuuri’s not sure he’s ever been too tired to eat before, but his mind isn’t quite ready to fall asleep, despite the exhaustion numbing the rest of his body.

They don’t have a roof, getting off the ground had been more important. Hopefully the weather stays clear for a little longer, but for now Yuuri can stare up at the stars while he lounges on his back, head only pillowed by his arms. Everything else was too soaked to bother with.

He’s covered in lash marks and bug bites from breaking a path through the foliage, his glasses are smudged beyond hope, and he’s hoping nothing nibbles on his exposed feet during the night. He’s also bulkier with muscle than he ever was in college, with facial hair coming in and a large knife strapped to his thigh that he knows how to handle as a tool or a weapon. This isn’t what he expected out of life, back when he first responded to a government job ad seeking diverse applicants. He’s not sure he’d even recognize himself, if someone had shown his younger self a picture.

It’s not bad though. His exhausted body, the humid air, the foreign sky. The surety that his ability to solve problems and survive will be tested over the coming days. It’s not bad.

**20.**

Yuuri stands in his driveway with his “husband”, watching movers who are actually government agents carrying furniture and other decor into their new home. This is mostly for show, the real work had been done quietly and under the guise of various home inspections and amenity installations. It’s more of a zoo exhibit than a home at this point, every room bugged and secured. It’s protection for Yuuri, but it’s still damn invasive. It’s better than the long debrief at least, even if the company leaves something to be desired.

“Careful,” Victor admonishes a burly woman with a brown ponytail who keeps side-eyeing him, “that box has our china in it.”

Either Victor Nikiforov has x-ray vision or he’s a petty little shit. A large petty-little-shit, his almost six foot frame clothed in a wide-legged, full-length, floral patterned jumpsuit. Yuuri would suspect that’s why he’s in a mood, but he wears it like he belongs in it, the deep vee of the neckline framing his throat and collarbone in a way that’s almost delicate.

He’s not delicate, the suit hides hard planes of muscle and scars. His perfect nose has been broken and rebuilt at least once before, according to the doctor who inspected him, and who would have thought the Russians would bother making sure his face stayed pretty? Yuuri can’t escape the knowledge that the hand that tucks itself into the crook of his elbow has killed, and he’s not allowed to flinch away.

“Smile, darling,” Victor says placidly. “The neighbors are watching.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...did a lot of research for this fic but omg I'm in a hurry to post it on my bang date so hit me up if you want to talk about whether people actually send FOIA requests for Bin Laden's porn (yes) or if Yuuri could be a CIA agent if he was a Japanese citizen (no).
> 
> My tumblr is [here](https://adelth.tumblr.com/) if you want to drop by.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHA, YOU THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD BUT IT LIVEEES.
> 
> Shout-out to Phantom_Ice, who said the right thing at the right time to remind me why I thought this story was worth writing in the first place. Also, there's now art in the first chapter, so check that out. It's Victor in the tiny bathing suit, I promise it's worth it. 
> 
> Content Warning for the first section of this chapter (#1): there's no violence, but the threat of assault or torture is pervasive.

**1.**

“Stand there girl, where our new friend can see you.”

Lyudmyla does as she’s told. That’s why she’s here, after all, to learn and prove herself. She certainly wouldn’t trade places with the man seated in the middle of the room, staring at her with fixed and frightened eyes. His gaze darts a bit, wanting the find the figure pacing leisurely behind him, but too afraid to do it properly. He’s not restrained, just frozen, and she notes how much of their job fear does for them.

“Do you know who I am—” the man starts, but her new mentor doesn’t let him finish.

“Yes. And you know who I am, so let’s move on to a more interesting question. Do you know why I want you to look at her?”

The man they’ve dragged into this dingy backroom doesn’t answer quickly, and Lyudmyla tries not to fidget as the silence drags on. She makes herself still and stoney, and does a poor job of hiding her flinch when the man finally breaks.

“I don’t know, you’re trying to trick me!”

“I want you to look at her because she’s beautiful. A bit young for either of us, but she’s bound to turn heads one day. Why don’t you tell her how pretty she is?”

Lyudmyla does not like this line of questioning, she does not like it at all. She hasn’t heard that her mentor is the type to take advantage, but his name probably commands enough respect to guarantee silence.  

“She’s very p-pretty,” their captive chokes out, off balance and afraid. Her mentor is the only one in the room not afraid, currently, and that’s probably a lesson on staying in control of a conversation.

“Hmm, that wasn’t very convincing. Let’s approach this another way; I try to do that when an answer is unsatisfying. No point in asking the same way twice, yes? In your opinion, is she more or less beautiful than Anya?”

To his credit, the man doesn’t balk. He doesn’t pale suddenly, and his eyes were already wild. There’s a flatness that seeps into his expression though, perhaps the difference between fear and dread. “I don’t know who that is.”

“Surely you haven’t forgotten! She has pale skin and curls, much like this girl—though her eyes and hair are dark. She wears such dark red lipstick, perhaps that would help.” He underhands a small cylinder at Lyudmyla, which she manages to catch neatly despite her surprise.

The tube is unsealed, previously used. She doesn’t have a mirror. She doesn’t want to put on a traitor’s makeup, locked in a room with two strange men. She knows the color will be a deep and bloody red; it feels dangerous in her hand, like a weapon.

Well, there’s no path but forward and she needs all the weapons she can get. She slides off the cap and does her best. Her mentor must be satisfied with the result because he continues on.

“You see, a very lovely woman, the kind who has an easy time convincing men to do things for her. She might say, ‘Please Tolya, drop this letter off at my friend’s home. My boyfriend is so controlling—he cannot know.’ And then you do, of course you do. What other choice do you have when such a beautiful woman is asking for your help.”

“I didn’t—”

“Stop.” The command is sharp, devoid of the faux-jocular chattiness that has thus far characterized her mentor’s side of the conversation. “I’m going to stop you before you make a mistake. Lyudmyla is going to ask you some questions in a moment. I thought perhaps you’d prefer if a pretty girl were asking. If that fails to yield a satisfactory answer, I’m going to have to take another approach, one you will like far less.”

Lyudmyla feels unprepared for the sudden transition from prop to participant. She’d assumed she’d be learning by observing her mentor at work; this seems like far too much responsibility.

“Don’t worry,” he says, ceasing his stalking to lean against the back wall. Lyudmyla shouldn’t be surprised by his ability to read her, but then again, he’s made a career out of surprising people. “We already know anything he can tell us. Consider it a learning experience, one way or another. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, I’ll teach you how to take him apart. If you have steady hands he might even survive. If not he’ll at least do a pretty girl one last favor.”

Her mentor crosses his arms, demeanor contained and satisfied. “I’m a romantic at heart,” he says, and his eyes catch the light, pale like a husky’s, his smile no less threatening for the lack of teeth. He flicks a wrist, ceding the floor to her.

She wants to swallow but doesn’t, trying to look calm and ready as she composes her first question. She wonders which outcome she should be hoping for.

“Tell me about how you met Anna Antonova.”

**22.**

Yuuri wakes up to the smell of food. This is in some ways predictable—Yuuri loves food—but in other ways very much not. No one, outside of the occasional mess hall cook, has made him breakfast in a long time. He takes a minute to stretch the kinks out of his limbs and roll his neck. He’s not an especially large man, but the couch is still a tight fit. Far more appealing than joining Victor Nikiforov in bed, though.

With the Russian otherwise occupied, Yuuri sneaks into their bedroom for a shower and a change of clothes. It’s a relief to take off his wedding band, the gold loop falling against the sink with a satisfying “chink.” Its heavy, shining presence on his hand is still incongruous to him—too real to be so fake. He screws it back on his finger after he’s dried off only with reluctance; it’s somehow worse than before, despite the perfect fit. He hesitates when he remembers that it’s Saturday, but pulls on a suit anyway. Young professionals work plenty of weekend overtime, it’s not incongruous for his cover, and frankly he needs time away from the house.

From Victor specifically, who looks up in surprise when he walks into the kitchen dressed and ready to leave for work. He’s attending to a variety of dishes; there are potatoes roasting in the oven, eggs waiting on the counter, and bacon that sizzles when he lays it carefully in a hot skillet. A quintessentially American breakfast, Yuuri observes. He’s even wearing a ruffled gingham apron, and Yuuri is really going to have to find out who the hell is procuring his clothes.

“I didn’t prepare your lunch,” Victor says over the popping grease, “I was expecting you to be home today.”

“Uh, yeah. Well. I’ll grab something near the office,” Yuuri offers lamely. His parents raised him well enough that he feels rude, but actually fuck that; he doesn’t need to care about Victor Nikiforov’s feelings. Who knows what the man is really after? He might just as well be trying to drive Yuuri out of the house as hoping he’ll stay.

“I was going to paint the front fence today, I thought we could do it together,” Victor continues, cracking an egg over the other pan with a sharp motion.

“Why? It’s pressure treated, it’ll be fine.”

Victor breaks the yolk of the next egg, makes a dissatisfied noise, and scraps the whole mess into the garbage so he can start again. Yuuri used to eat the occasional egg with a broken yolk in his parents' kitchen, not good enough for paying customers, but a perfectly edible snack for a kid washing dishes or doing homework.

“I can help tomorrow.” The words leave Yuuri’s mouth instinctively, without permission, before the part of Yuuri’s brain that actually understands being a spy can shut him up.

“It’s going to rain tomorrow. I’ll do it myself. It’s fine.”

It doesn’t sound like it’s fine, but Yuuri isn’t up to navigating fake-martial spats with his fake-husband. He’s almost glad when the doorbell rings, although he doesn’t really want to deal with whoever’s out there either.

“Can you get that? I’ve got things on the stove,” Victor prompts when Yuuri doesn't move quickly enough.

Yuuri has never wanted to go to work more in his life. He’s managed to school his expression into something neutrally inquisitive by the time he opens the front door. Their visitor is a middle-aged woman, about Yuuri’s height with auburn hair starting to grey. She smiles too broadly and foists a large ceramic dish towards Yuuri in greeting.

“Hi!” she says. “I’m Charlie, my husband and I own the house behind you. I hope it’s not too early, but I saw lights on and I wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind. I’m Yuuri, I’m sure my husband would come to the door but he’s watching the stove.” He doesn’t even stutter over calling Victor his husband out loud. He may not like it, but he knows how to inhabit a false identity.

Victor ducks his head into the hall just long enough to wave a spatula invitingly.

“Why don’t you come in?” Yuuri manages to say without stiffness, despite his trepidation over letting Victor interact with an unwitting civilian. “You can tell him about what you’ve brought us.”

“It’s chicken and rice casserole. Easy to heat back up,” Charlie explains as she steps in and toes off her shoes. “I’d be happy to trade recipes though, as long as I’m not interrupting.”

“It’s fine. I was just leaving for work actually, I’m sure Victor would appreciate the company.” Yuuri has no idea whether Victor will appreciate the company, but it should at least distract him.

“That’s a shame. You’ll have to come over for dinner sometime so we can do this properly. Do you play golf, by any chance? My husband and some friends go most Sundays, he told me to extend an invitation if you’re interested.”

It may yet come to that, but not while Yuuri has other avenues to avoid his home life. “I’ll keep it in mind, but I’m afraid I’m going to be pretty busy between work and the move.”

“Oh, yes. It’s been a while, but I remember how it is to be a young person. The neighborhood has skewed older so far, it was a pleasant surprise when you moved in.”

Victor must be done with the stove because he adheres himself to the side of Yuuri’s body not currently propping up a casserole dish when they step into the kitchen. “My husband promised me a big house in the suburbs when I come to America,” he announces in the most obnoxiously exaggerated Russian accent Yuuri has ever heard on an actual Russian person. He struggles not to cringe, while the other man extends the arm not wrapped around Yuuri for Charlie to shake.

“My name is Victor, it is so good to be meeting you.”

**23.**

“Is he okay?” Zuhayra asks her partner. Katsuki has been staring, eerily unblinking, at the grey wall of his cubicle since she arrived to take her turn in the surveillance van. His cover is as a market researcher, but she knows he still does something for the CIA during the day. She’s not sure what, exactly, because interagency goodwill only goes so far.

Manning leans back in his chair, hands linked over his gut, and smirks with an unfriendly sort of cheer. “Nikiforov is exercising creative freedom with his cover and it’s the best thing I’ve ever seen. Last I heard he was heavily implying Katsuki ordered him on the internet or something. I’ve heard they’re supposed to be in this together, but at this rate I think Katsuki might murder him in his sleep and save us all some trouble. I really cannot believe how badly this is going to blow up in the company’s face. ”  

Considering their names are attached to this operation, Manning probably shouldn’t be so gleeful about the potential scandal. Maybe after she’s been on the job a bit longer she’ll be jaded by long-standing interagency politics too. “Don’t you want to get going? I’m good to take over, you’ve been here all night.”

“Are you kidding?” Manning asks, bending back over the console. “This is better than cable. They’re having some sort of ridiculous spat, I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

**19.**

Mila smiles sweetly at her lover’s secretary, hiking her crossed leg just a little bit higher so the top of her stocking shows. The woman is pretty enough, and by reputation fiercely competent. She’s also collecting evidence on her boss, possibly with the intention of selling it to his political enemies. Washington is one hell of a town.

It remains to be seen whether Mila will have to take steps, but judging by the way the woman’s eyes stray toward her thighs, it’s nice to know that’s at least an option. She entertains the thought of just spreading her knees and letting the woman get an eyeful. She smirks a little, wondering what the secretary would do. Her underwear are cute today, after all, and red has always been her color.

If Mila were as high maintenance she pretends to be, she’d probably be annoyed by the wait. In reality, she's perfectly pleased to monitor who comes in and out of the office. It never hurts to know more faces, she might be interested in arranging an introduction to some of them in the future. She hasn't learned anything particularly promising today, but flashing her undergarments at the secretary is at least entertaining.

She’s in the middle of less-than-surreptitiously arranging her bust when the office door finally opens from the inside, her lover glad-handing his visitors on their way out. Interested, Mila stands and meets his eye over the shoulder of a man she recognizes as a telecom lobbyist.

“Mila!” he says, all polished charm. “I must have lost track of time, I hope you weren’t waiting long.” She accepts the invitation of his proffered arm, letting him settle a hand against her back while she exchanges pleasantries with his guests. This is, at its core, the nature of their relationship: she concedes to being his trophy, and he introduces her to people of interest.

The lobbyist turns out to be an old school friend, and there’s some good-natured ribbing about how her lover managed to attract the attention of someone so much younger and prettier. Mila plays the part, balancing between bashful and sultry. Her quip that certain things improve with age lands to laughter all around, and soon after they’re arranging to meet for lunch.

“I’m sorry darling,” she’s forced to interrupt, “but I’ll be out of town on the seventeenth. Perhaps the following week?”

“Work again?” her lover asks, frowning. “You know I could find you a better job.”

“I like my job,” she tells him, a rare truth. “But no, I’m visiting my Aunt. She has no one else in this country, and it’s been too long since I saw her.”

“Beautiful, hardworking, and dedicated to family. You hold on to this one Davey, she’s a keeper.”

Mila smiles under the praise, demure but pleased. “Well, we must all take care of those who came before us, don’t you think?”

**29.**

Yuuri watches the tv, absorbing nothing as serious-voiced newscasters, brightly colored but soulless adverts, and laughing studio audiences flicker across the screen. Victor doesn’t even pretend interest, preferring to watch Yuuri instead.

It’s _distressing_ , as are most things about Victor Nikiforov. He sits too close on the couch, despite every other seat in the house being available. He holds his shoulders with perfect posture,  wearing a pastel cardigan, his throat circled with a strand of pearls. He has yet to seem anything less than on board with whoever’s mad plan it is to dress him like a modern, gender-flipped take on a 1950s homemaker. He’s distressingly _good_ at playing the idealized housewife from another era. He keeps the house impeccably clean, prepares every meal, and just last night neatly hemmed a pair of Yuuri’s pants that must not have met his sartorial standards. The last time Yuuri put stitches in something it was a person, he’s faintly disgusted to learn that Victor’s expertise outstrips his even here.

True to his word, he’d painted the picket fence out front white.

Yuuri had come home and stared at it, grasping at the unreality of living in this uncanny, stepfordian pantomime of the American Dream. It’s not something that speaks to him, personally; the decade following the second world war hadn’t been a great time to be ethnically Japanese in this country. His family would have just been pulling itself back together after the disruption of “forced evacuation,” trying to get a business running with meager help from the government that had suspended their rights as citizens for the duration of the war.

So no, it’s not a period Yuuri is nostalgic about. That he’s living this farce with a Russian spy elevates it to something like satire.

If Victor is here to drive him crazy, _it’s working_. He has no idea what Victor wants and reluctantly turns to face his housemate, unable to ignore him any longer. The reward for his valor is the opportunity to stare deeply into Victor Nikiforov’s eyes, a situation the other man seems perfectly comfortable with.

Victor, damn him, has very pretty eyes. In bright sunlight they can look almost turquoise, but here in the dim light of the television they’re a pale crystal blue. If the procedure were possible, Yuuri might wonder if he’d gotten work done, like his nose. Not so good for vanishing into a crowd, Yuuri has him beat there at least.

“Do you want something, Victor?”

Victor raises a finger to his mouth, serious and considering. “I think we should get a dog.”

**5.**

Yuuri’s job is to reduce risk for policymakers. It’s easy to hold on to that clarity of purpose while analyzing top secret information in the vault-like security of a SCIF back in Langley, Virginia. It becomes harder when holding clandestine meetings in a dismal safehouse in Sochi, Russia.

“I’m sorry, did you say you were using a prostitute as a lookout?” Yuuri must have misunderstood.

The station chief grunts, grinding out his cigarette in what used to be a perfectly nice teacup. “Not anymore I ain’t. That’s why I need you Katsuki.”

Yuuri doesn’t know what’s worse, the lax approach to security, or the fact that he was second choice behind a local hooker.

“Look, I paid a pro to tell me if she saw any unusual faces around the club where Popovich’s expected to be drowning his sorrows tonight. Perfectly normal, everyone keeps tabs on everyone else around here. We’ve already pulled our assets out, I just wanna know if anyone comes sniffing around Popovich. He’s been useful.”

“Popovich doesn’t know anything.” Yuuri had only caught the tail end of that long-running operation, but he was sure Popovich hadn’t been involved.

“Doesn’t mean he wasn’t useful, gormless fucker. Pretty much drove the asset into our arms, didn’t he? Could be good for us if they pin it on him, and if not we still have access to what he wants most in the world. Might be an opening we can use, someday.”

Not infrequently, Yuuri wonders about the people he meets in Operations. The ones like McKinnon, who make a career out of fieldwork, tend to think in way Yuuri is both impressed and repulsed by. People are tools to be used and problems to be solved, you can’t do this job without a certain amount of callousness. At the same time, what could possibly be worth risking his life and freedom in an unfriendly country for, besides the conviction that he’s helping keep people safe. He’s not doing this for _glory_ , if the world ever knows his name it will mean things have gone disastrously wrong for him.

“Don’t worry about it Katsuki, you’ll be fine. I won’t even make you wear a little black dress.” The chief bares his nicotine-stained teeth, face crinkling at his own joke. Yuuri knows from experience that fitting into a dress is harder than it sounds, but it’s not like he wouldn’t try if it proved necessary. That does raise the question of who Yuuri is supposed to be tonight, because if he’s not selling...“Just act like any other foreign tourist looking to meet a nice Russian girl, buy a few drinks, and keep your ear to the ground.”

Popovich just couldn’t have chosen a more respectable establishment, could he? Or a less respectable one, for that matter. Yuuri can name at least one party bar of extreme disrepute he’d rather be at. No, it had to be the place with a dress code, a smoking room, and a reputation for available women. Then again, maybe that’s exactly the kind of place a scorned man goes.

Alright, fine. Yuuri can be a lonely guy looking for a date who’s out of his league. It’s only one night, what’s the worst that could happen?

**26.**

“I don’t know why this keeps happening,” Victor says, staring down the smoking ruin of his apple pie. The smell of burnt sugar lingers, and amazingly the disaster is actually as bad as Victor had claimed over the phone. “I can make sharlotka, very easy. How much different can it be?”

Charlie considers the pie, the fact that this has happened before, and the unhappy—though still very attractive—crumple of Victor’s face. “Oh sweetie,” she says.

Victor peels off his oven mitts and collapses into a chair, arranging his apron primly over his knees. “I know,” he sighs. “I am not a great baker. I just want to make my Yuuri happy. He changed my life, bringing me here. I want to make things perfect for him.”

“Oh sweetie,” Charlie repeats, taking a seat across from him and laying a hand over his. “I’m sure Yuuri won’t care about the pie. He loves you, right? And you keep a beautiful home! I’m sure sees how well you take care of him.” Victor’s large hands are so noticeably different from hers. It’s not exactly surprising, just at odds with the refined delicacy he presents to the world. Despite the strength in his hands or the breadth of his shoulders, he seems every inch the nervous new bride. Charlie wants to tuck him under her wing and teach him all the things she would have passed on to her younger self, given the chance.

And she knows just where to start.

“Now, forget the pie. I’ll teach you to make a peach cobbler that will make your husband beg. The crust is much less fussy, and the secret ingredient is bourbon.”

**24.**

Martha wishes her husband could have met his great-niece. She’s sure the two would have gotten on like a house on fire. The girl shares his propensity for computers and science, and Martha can just imagine the largely incomprehensible conversations they would have had. Regrettably, he’d died without even knowing his sister in the old country had a daughter, let alone that her own daughter would come looking to reconnect with family one day.

“Really, you didn’t have to come all this way. I’m sure your fancy job in the city keeps you busy.”

Her niece tucks a lock of very red hair behind her ear and smiles winningly. “Not that fancy, Aunt Martha. And of course I’m happy to visit, you’re my only family in this country, after all.”

There’s that word again: family. Martha hadn’t known what to think when she’d gotten that first phone call, reaching out for long lost relations. She’d been, well, suspicious. Artem hadn’t parted with his family on the best terms, and they’d certainly never approved of his English wife. But she supposes each new generation cares less and less about the wounds of the past, and perhaps that’s just as well.

“How are the rest of the family? I do think about them, whenever I hear news out of Sevastopol.”

“Everyone was well, the last I heard.” She pouts, and the recrimination that follows is both playful and pointed. “I’d know more if my mother would get on her computer and contact me sometimes.”

“Bah,” Martha replies, falling easily into the role of the technologically inept old woman. “What was wrong with paper and ink? My Artem used to write me the most lovely letters, I keep them in a box to remember him by. When was the last time you wrote a letter, hmm?”

Her lovely niece just smiles wider, the imp. “It was when I was arranging my travel documents, and it put me off the endeavor entirely. Now, what is wrong with your home network this time?”

 _Home network_ indeed. “One of the boxes doesn’t turn on when I press the button.”

Martha points out the offending box, and her niece kneels to examine it. Whatever Martha’s initial suspicions, she’s been nothing but kind and obliging every time she visits. She never asks for help or money, nor does she seem to require either, with her own life and career well in hand.

Mila really is an admirable young woman. She’s beautiful and clever, and she takes the time to visit her great-uncle’s old widow. It’s not easy to move to a whole new country, and Martha would never have dared to do it alone. She resolves to do a better job of keeping in touch, even if she has to use the damn computer to do it.

**30.**

“Yuuurri,” Victor calls teasingly, making Yuuri freeze where he’s collecting used dishes. He eyes the barbeque longingly, wishing he’d never strayed from his shielded corner of the deck. Victor had, of course, been responsible for planning this little get together. He and a congregation of older women Yuuri mostly doesn’t recognize have gathered on deck furniture near the pool. It’s...nice...that he’s making friends, Yuuri thinks with trepidation.

He obeys the summons, while the women smile and giggle behind their hands. Yuuri pastes a smile onto his face, feeling like an actor in a shiny, titillating, after-school melodrama. Victor smiles, coy from beneath the brim of his wide sunhat, and lifts a bottle of sunscreen inquiringly. “Can you do my back?” he asks.

Yuuri numbly accepts the bottle, and Victor arranges himself stomach down on his lounger. His cover-up is tied around his waist, low enough that the cute little dimples above his ass draw Yuuri’s eyes. Yuuri gulps, hopefully not audibly, and forces his gaze away. He should have stayed at the barbeque, even if Mr. Lewis couldn’t seem to shut up about the best way to cook a burger.

“Hurry up, man. If you don’t I will,” the oldest of gathered women says, too loud for propriety.

“Martha!” gasps Charlie, who Yuuri actually knows. She’s laughing despite the censoring hand she places on Martha’s arm, and it sets off titters all around. Victor puts his chin in his hands, expectant.

Fine. Yuuri is a grown up. He’s an officer of the CIA. He’s a god-damn spy. Not only can he slather lotion on Victor’s pale, muscular back: he’s the only one who can. No one else here has the training or security clearance to lay hands on Victor Nikiforov.

He flicks the cap, upends the sunscreen over a waiting palm, and squeezes firmly. The bottle makes a loud squelching sound, spattering him with thick, white flecks. The women laugh harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay folks, this story has been kicking my ass. I need a spreadsheet to keep track of it at this point, which is a level of planning that does not come naturally to me. Feedback/Kudos/Shares are much appreciated, my tumblr is [here](https://adelth.tumblr.com/) and as always, thanks for reading.


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